


Summit

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The White Queen arrives late, as is her custom. This is part of the game. The Black Queen arrives early and sets the stage the way she likes. The White Queen arrives late, forcing the Black Queen to wait on her. Each must feel victorious somehow, saving face in front of their own people and soothing their own egos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summit

The Black Queen arrives early, as she always does, trailing an entourage carrying all the necessary items they’ll need. A dark purple rug is laid down over the cold steel floor and chairs are arranged around a table. A dozen quick hands lay out low tea, piling high a layered tray of delights and setting out china for two. The Black Queen watches them scurry about to finish their duties, and then as quickly as they arrived, they disappear one by one through the transportalizer and return to Derse. 

She waits. The White Queen arrives late, as is her custom. This is part of the game. The Black Queen arrives early and sets the stage the way she likes. The White Queen arrives late, forcing the Black Queen to wait on her. Each must feel victorious somehow, saving face in front of their own people and soothing their own egos. 

The White Queen is flanked by guards. They do not look at the Black Queen or the items laid out on the table. They do look elsewhere, as if there is an ambush waiting. She finds their searching tiresome. All others who work here are gone, banished from the site until after the Queens have finished their business. Anyway, the Black Queen wouldn’t dare attack before the game begins. She can win without cheating, and cheating would only sour her victory. 

When the guards have contented themselves and departed, the Queens each take a seat on either side of the table. The Black Queen serves the tea. The White Queen serves pastries off the small tower, making sure to pick each of their favorites. They’ve done this enough that they know each other’s preferences. The White Queen has her tea with lemon and milk; the Black Queen has hers black. The Black Queen starts with a cherry danish; the White Queen with a cream puff. 

The first pastry is eaten in silence while they look over each other, each seeking some new weakness. Is that a new crack in their carapace? Do they hold their wrist a little too carefully? Does their shell seem dull? Bite after careful bite until there is nothing left on the plates besides a dark red smear and a small white blob. 

“We caught one of your spies.” The White Queen leads, as she always does in these matters. She sips her tea and sets the delicate china back onto the saucer. “Your pastry chef is improving.” 

“The chef was replaced by one more suited to the position.” It had been difficult to replace him so late in the game. It would take too long to clone a new one, and so they had been forced to train one. The old chef had been exiled and the new one had replaced him utterly, taking his title and place in society. It had been quite the scandal and though they had tried to keep it quiet, it was clear that Prospit had still heard about it. To not acknowledge the replacement after White Queen praised his cooking would have been a sign of weakness. Better than to acknowledge it and wear it with pride, no matter how much it burnt her to know that the White Queen had no trouble with her own staff. The Black Queen runs her thumb around the gold gracing the lip of her cup, almost swallowed whole by the dark purple blossoms below. “We executed one of your spies. Would you like us to return the body?” 

“If you feel you must.” Her white doppelganger’s mask remains firmly in place, showing neither sorrow or anger or any other emotion at the death of an agent other than polite boredom. “We will return yours, once they’ve served their sentence. That should be another four years, I believe.” 

“I see Prospit is as lenient as ever. It must be difficult feeding so many imprisoned people. On Derse, we would see that as a waste of rations.” She selects a slice of red velvet cake. The new chef is much better. He’s managed to make the cake the exact shade of drying blood without negatively affecting the taste. She cuts a small piece and slips it into her mouth, waiting for the White Queen’s response. 

“I would expect no less. Those extra hundreds of mouths will hardly dent our supplies, while your own provisions have always been on the meager side. I imagine they’ll eat better imprisoned than they ever did free.” The White Queen browses the tray before deciding on a meringue with fresh blueberries. The berries have never seen the light of Skaia, grown deep underground using sunlamps and carefully transportalized to Derse’s royal kitchens to be added to various desserts, and then transportalized once more to this meteor in the Veil, the closest point to ‘neutral’ that exists anywhere in the whole of the Incipisphere. Dark purple juice spills out over the white of the meringue as she crushes a berry with a fork. “Do let me know if you need any assistance growing fruit. We always have extra. I’m sure we could supply you with some.”

“How kind of you. The offer is appreciated but unnecessary. Of course, if you insist, I’m sure we could work out a trade. I hear your army is having some discipline problems. We would be pleased to send over a drill sergeant or two to help instruct yours in proper techniques.” Another forkful slips between her teeth and she lets it melt against her tongue. Their faces are like mirrors facing one another, reflecting each other until there is nothing real or truth left to be seen, just eternity stretching on forever. “Perhaps with their help, you can delay Prospit’s failure another week or two.” 

They both know this is futile. Derse will win. The best Prospit can hope for is to draw out the battle long enough that their Princes and Princesses may be strong enough to defeat the Black King. They will fail at even that, as the things lurking beyond the edge of space have whispered to the Black Queen again and again, as the clouds the White Queen has looked into must have told her. But even with defeat looming, they continue with their meetings and their idle threats.

Everyone needs a way to pass the time. This is theirs.

They pour more tea and each help themselves to a small tray of fresh fruit. It takes an obscene amount of energy to grow anything fresh on Derse. Even the Black Queen is forced to eat rations most days. The chefs do their best with the canned and pickled and bottled items in the pantries and most who have never tasted anything other than the supple reserves would never know there was anything in the world that was better to eat. But there is a taste that fresh things have that is undeniably superior to what already existed when the world became. Prospit has its rooftop gardens and Skaia’s light, and fresh things do not require so much energy. The White Queen must eat fresh things each day, and this knowledge along galls the Black Queen when she sits down to dinner each night and finds that once again, she is eating what was provided. One day, when this war is over, she will eat fresh each day and dine on the reserves of Propsit. She will decimate that planet and turn it into a garden to feed all of Derse, and she will savour the taste of her rival’s utter ruin with each bite of every meal. 

The arrival of the White Queen’s guards signals an end to their engagement. The Black Queen’s servants will arrive soon after to clear things away. The food will be taken to her chambers to be eaten as she pleases. It will be the last meal of its kind until they meet again, if they do meet again. The time draws near for the war to begin. 

The Black Queen and White Queen embrace each other, each careful not to be too stiff or too relaxed as they do. She can smell the White Queen’s perfume when she leans in close, something light and pleasant. Her own scent of choice is dark and musky. The Black Queen is very tempted to wrap her fingers around that scented neck and to wring it out here and now and be done with this all. The White Queen must feel the same, her delicate fingers settled against the Black Queen’s spine as if they may suddenly push between the interlocking plates there and seek out that shaft of bone to crush in her palm. 

But they would never do such a thing. There are rules to follow and they are nothing if not willing to abide by them. 

They part and the White Queen walks to the transportalizer, pausing just before it and posing one last question to the Black Queen. “Have you spoken with your Princess yet?” 

She is, of course, referring to the future Hero of Hope. The Black Queen has seen the child drifting between towers, seeking out her fellow Heroes who still lay slumbering. She was approached once by a guard who frightened her so badly that she fled and hid among the spires until she fell asleep again. Meanwhile, reports from her spies say that nearly all of Prospit’s Princesses and Princes have woken and that at least two make daily visits to the White Queen. 

The Black Queen has kept her face composed this entire time, but she lets herself smile, just slightly, at the White Queen’s miscalculation. “Of course not. The last thing I would do is speak with any of our Heroes before the session begins. We’re not so desperate that we need children to die for us.” 

There is a split second of hesitation as the White Queen steps onto the transportalizer. She keeps her face blank and her body poised, but for one glorious moment, the Black Queen sees her falter. Then the White Queen steps forward and is gone. The guards follow one by one until there is no one left but the Black Queen.

She clasps her hands and smiles to herself, knowing that she’s won, knowing that when the time comes, she will win again. Prospit will fall and the Heroes will fall and Derse will rise, as it was meant to. 

The Black Queen takes her seat at the table and helps herself to another strawberry while she waits.


End file.
